


Presentation

by SylvanWitch



Series: Blessed Sabbats [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:05:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cycle begins as the winter's mantle slowly seeps back into the warming earth.  Sam and Dean enact an ancient ritual of renewal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presentation

**Author's Note:**

> The pagan Sabbat of Imbolc is celebrated on February 2 and marks the day the God (represented by the Sun) first emerges from the home of his mother, the Goddess. I'm reframing the story of the Wheel of the Year for the brothers.

The sounds of snow melt dripping from the overhanging pines made Dean logy, filled him with a strange lassitude that kept him pinned, sprawled across the front seat of the Impala, feet beneath the steering wheel, head propped against the passenger side door, his leather jacket a cushion against the otherwise uncomfortable position.

 

He was naked and yet not cold, something that should strike him as strange, given the external temperature hovering just above freezing and the fact that he hadn’t had the engine on for quite some time.

 

But Dean _wasn’t_ cold.  He felt if anything a little feverish, the muscles beneath his skin itching for movement he couldn’t seem to make.  He wanted his brother with him right now.

 

But Sam was still gone, somewhere in the deeper woods. 

 

Dean had watched him walk away, had wondered for the hundredth time if maybe he shouldn’t disobey Sam’s adamant orders and follow him.

 

But once his brother had gone out of sight around the bend, Dean had found himself powerfully indifferent to movement of any sort, and though he wasn’t really tired, his eyes kept drifting shut.  He figured Sammy knew what he was doing; after all, he was his own man, never mind that Dean liked to mother him—a thought he’d never have admitted to if he weren’t under the considerable influence of whatever-the-hell this was.

 

Once in awhile, his half-closed eyes would spring all the way open when a slide of heavy, wet snow came showering down from a branch to fall with an audible plop beside the car or on her hood.  He hoped there wasn’t anything in the snow that might hurt the paint, knew Sam would laugh at him for even thinking about that.

 

He was supposed to be watching for Sam, but it had been hard to concentrate on the trail that disappeared at a turn beside a great granite outcropping that thrust up from the earth and seemed to defy all snow, its bare gray crown mute testimony to the age of the wilderness all around him.

 

A shiver took him as an especially large mass of snow piled down onto the windshield, slid wetly and stuck over the wipers.

 

He should sit up, start the car, let wipers and blowers do their work, but he couldn’t seem to do it.  Sam would be back soon, and when he came, there was something Dean needed to do.  For now, however, Dean could only focus on how much he wanted to see Sam.  Beyond that, he was incapable of much.

 

The snow, though, obscured the woods beyond the windshield, and Dean couldn’t have that.  He found that the longer he left it to melt on its own, the worse the tension in his muscles and thrumming under his skin became, and finally he sat up, turned the key, and got the heater going, making an extreme effort to reach over and also turn on the wipers.

 

Soon, their steady whirr played counterpoint to the drip of snowmelt on the roof over his head, and he resided back down to his half-upright position, eyes idly roving the woods that he could once again see through the cleared windshield.

 

There.

 

Movement, deep back, only a shadow shifting, he thought, and then he made out his brother’s long stride.

 

Sam was naked, too, had been when he’d walked into the woods and was so still.

 

Dean took in a breath and held it to see Sam’s body backlit by the watery winter sun hanging low on the horizon, halfway to setting.  Long shadows of trees took turns breaking Sam’s pale glory as he stalked toward Dean, eyes intent with purpose.

  
But his brother didn’t come to the car, instead stopping by the great table rock at the trail’s bend and beckoning with a raise hand for Dean to come to him.

 

He pushed himself upright, suddenly rejuvenated, shut off the car, and climbed out of the driver’s side door, leaving it ajar with the keys still in the ignition.

 

Dean felt compelled to reach his brother, a feeling he’d ordinarily despise, but the light in Sam’s eyes was so powerful that he couldn’t do anything but come.

 

The ground was wet beneath his bare feet, and Dean could feel the mud of the trail oozing between his toes.  He curled them a little for traction and padded forward, surprised to discover that if he kept to the beam the late sun was laying down, he was plenty warm.

  
The closer he got to Sam, the hotter he got.

 

When he was a dozen feet away, Dean asked, “Is it finished?” not even sure what “it” had been.  He’d asked before, but Sam had only smiled secretively and promised Dean that he’d be back, and Dean had felt warmed by that smile and assured that Sam was to be trusted, ever and always. 

 

Sam inclined his head in response and stretched out his arm, palm up, fingers curled upward in a subtle bow:  invitation.

 

Dean closed the space between them and took Sam’s hand.  At the joining, the sun seemed to sink that second lower on the horizon, breaking clear and clean from the cloud cover that had muted it, and wrapping around Sam a halo of golden light, gilding the long fall of his hair around his face, lighting up the afternoon stubble that Sam had now and then when he didn’t shave often enough.

 

Sam smiled, eclipsing the sun for Dean, who had eyes only for his brother’s own.

 

Sam dipped his head to greet Dean in a kiss that was almost chaste, that lingered only a moment overlong on Dean’s lower lip.

 

He swore he could taste melting snow and the rich, rising sap of pines on Sam’s lips.

 

“What—“ he began, but Sam shushed him with a finger to his lips, and Dean stilled, feeling that single, hot digit all the way down his center to the core of him.

 

He shuddered out a breath and Sam’s smile slipped into something less innocent, wiser and far more knowing than he’d been before he’d walked into the woods that morning.

 

Walking backward, leading Dean by the hand, Sam leaned into the granite, spraddling his legs and sliding down the rough surface of the rock until Dean was bracketed by his thighs and the brothers were even at eye level and only inches apart.

 

Dean felt the heat of Sam radiating against his belly and chest, felt the sun broad on his back, felt embraced by blazing heat.  He sighed and leaned into his brother, who wrapped long arms around him and buried his nose against Dean’s neck just below his ear.

 

“You smell like home,” Sam said, lips tasting Dean’s feathering pulse.

 

Dean took a deep breath and whispered, “You smell wild,” into Sam’s ear, following his words with his tongue, tracing the delicate whorls of Sam’s outer ear until his brother shuddered and he felt him harden where he was trapped between their bellies.

 

Dean widened his mouth into a hungry smile and took a piece of Sam’s flesh, just behind the ear, between his teeth, not biting, just gripping.  He swiped the sting away with his tongue and lapped his way down to Sam’s collarbone, then let his teeth wrap around that hard and jutting nub, biting until Sam moaned and rocked against his belly.

 

Sam slid his joined arms down until they wrapped around the small of Dean’s back, and he lifted his brother and spun him with ease, his strength apparent in the grace of the motion and the way that he gentled his brother down onto the table rock, putting Dean’s shaft, which rose at the same angle as the rock beneath him, at the best level for every kind of thing Sam was clearly thinking of doing, if his smile was any indication.

 

Dean took in his brother’s look and gave the barest moan, subsiding back against the rock and spreading his thighs further in wanton invitation.

 

Mouth wide, Sam huffed hot steam over the sensitive skin of Dean’s sac, and Dean writhed, pumping his hips upwards in offering until Sam spread one hand across Dean’s pelvis, making a triangular frame for his member and effectively keeping Dean down.

 

“Sam,” Dean stuttered, pleading already, and Sam laved a hot line with the very tip of his tongue from Dean’s heavy sac down the perineum to the puckered bud that Dean was still straining to offer.

 

Sam sucked the bud and laid a wet, wicked kiss with the flat of his tongue, the sounds an obscene parody of the snow falling like heavy rain all around them. 

 

“Sam,” Dean said again, voice thick with wanting, and Sam relented, making of his tongue an arrow and driving it into Dean’s tenderest flesh with an audible relish that resonated in the open air. 

 

Dean was keening quietly, a kind of reserved explosion of needy noise, and Sam struggled to drive his tongue deeper, to break Dean’s control and make him scream.  When his long index finger joined his tongue to rive Dean open, Dean choked back a louder sound, and when Sam crooked that finger upward, Dean cried out, “God, Sammy,” and fought his brother’s confining hand, shifting his hips from side to side, anything to gain some control.

 

But Sam kept him there, pinioned on the fulcrum of his tongue and single finger, and Dean shook apart, shuddering, under the treatment, balanced on the edge of oblivion by the give and take of Sam’s skillful hands and mouth.

Finally, when Sam felt against his cheek the telltale sign of Dean’s nearing completion, he pulled away, turning his wet mouth against Dean’s thigh to suck a deep red love mark there and closing the fist he’d used to keep Dean in place, holding back Dean’s release.

 

And though Sam had not touched Dean’s straining shaft, had not so much as wafted a wet breath over it, his brother was whining now, a constant sound from the back of his throat, chest heaving, sweat running in thin rivulets, head tossing against the rough rock on which he was spread out, crucified by a different kind of passion.

 

Sam sucked him down, hand tight, tighter, let his teeth graze over the sensitive tip, let his tongue slide into the slit and run down the underside as he swallowed.

 

Dean’s shout roused birds from their winter roosts, and in the thunderous rush of a thousand wings, Sam brought his brother screaming to completion.

 

His final climax was so profound that Dean did not take in air and instead lay there, mouth open, eyes tightly shut, frozen in the moment as the sun’s last rays lit the sky in shafts of piercing promise, some strange effigy of forgotten days when men were beautiful and wild and owned nature’s holiest mysteries.

 

Sam stood back from his brother as though to admire what he had wrought:  the taut line of Dean’s straining chest, the perfect curve of his convex belly, the tight cording of his throat, the twin tracks of tears down his cheeks.

 

Then he leaned forward to lay the gentlest of kisses at the soft spot where his brother’s quiescence met his body, and Dean took in a huge breath, as though brought back from the brink of drowning in the cold air of midwinter.

 

The sky smelled of snow, and as Sam bracketed Dean’s hips with his hands, wrapping them around the bones, thumbs in the hollows where powerful muscles moved as his brother stirred to life once more, Sam smiled.

 

Dean managed to raise his head a scant inch from the rock and give Sam a long look from beneath his mostly closed lids.  The glint of green was lost as twilight grew, and Sam gave a wicked smile in answer to Dean’s unasked question.

 

He had already come to pleasure twice in the time he’d been bringing the same to his brother.

 

“It’s getting dark,” he said, and Dean gave a weak laugh.

 

“Oh, good.  I was afraid you’d made me blind.”

 

Sam’s laugh was louder, bouncing off the boles of ancient pines and ringing out into the deeper woods.

 

“I think that’s only when you’re by yourself, Dean,” Sam observed, offering his brother a hand for help in sitting up.

 

Dean took it, a mild “Oof” as he made it upright his only concession to the hardness of the stone across which he’d been stretched.

 

“What got into you?” Dean asked as he slid gingerly off the granite and took an experimental step or two to make sure his knees would hold him.

 

“I think that’s the other way around,” Sam observed, sidestepping Dean’s half-hearted attempt to swat him on his bare ass as he went by, taking the lead toward the Impala, which was swallowed by shadows, only the faintest glint of chrome letting them know where she rested, waiting.

 

Dean’s appreciative laugh was half satisfied smirk, half unsure wonderment.

 

“Seriously, Sam.  What happened out there?”

 

But Sam would not answer, and the best that Dean could guess was that his brother had learned something about himself that he could only share with Dean in the way that he already had.

 

Dean considered that if school had had such tests, he might have done way better. 

 

They dressed in silence, hearing the breathing night all around them, the sound of snow melt lessening as the cold came up.

 

Just as Dean moved away from the trunk toward the driver’s side, Sam laid a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.  Dean turned back to give Sam an inquiring look, but Sam only smiled and placed a chaste kiss on Dean’s forehead.

 

“I love you,” Sam said.

 

Struck by the solemnity in Sam’s voice, though his brother still wore a curious smile, Dean could only swallow and nod, but given the way Sam’s eyes lit up, he figured he’d done alright.

 

As Sam joined him in the Impala and Dean turned the key, he said, “So, you think the groundhog saw his shadow today?”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam answered.  “Winter’s got a ways to go.”

 

Just then, the Impala’s headlights picked out the first fat flakes of new snow, and if Dean shivered a little at his brother’s words, he didn’t let it show.

 

 

 


End file.
